


Tony Stark and the Woman Who Refuses to Say Her Own Name

by hegemony



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Pop Music RPF
Genre: F/M, crackfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-09
Updated: 2011-10-09
Packaged: 2017-10-24 10:33:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/262501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hegemony/pseuds/hegemony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony meets an admirer. He learns to admire her, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tony Stark and the Woman Who Refuses to Say Her Own Name

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Iron_kink on 15th-Jun-2010, for a prompt 'Tony Stark is beautiful, dirty rich. NEEDS MOAR GAGA, GUYS.' I imagine this happens some time around/after the Stark Fair in the second IM movie. Yes, this is crack-- I'm quite aware.
> 
> Gently edited.

Tony sits in the paltry 'library' he never uses, a glass of scotch in his hand, looking out at the moon over the shore. If he clears his mind and blocks out the obnoxious music coming from down the hall, he can even hear the waves crashing against the shore, back and forth. There's no peace in that sound, but the constant has always been a comfort to Tony. He thinks of the party, the other almost-constant in his life, rushing in and out like the tide.

"Mind a little company?" Her voice is soft, like she knows she's disturbing him, but he can feel her presence behind him, more than just a figment of his drunken imagination.

"How can I say no to company like yours?" He counters, looking over his shoulder to her. She's nabbed a bottle of champagne in a marble ice bucket, has it cocked against her thigh, her glass dangling in her other hand. His hand nudges toward the other side of the narrow, too hard couch, twists his mouth up into a mockery of a smile.

Tonight she has no entourage, and were it not for the nude-colored fabric she's wearing, she could certainly be described as modestly dressed. As she comes closer, he sees something familiar: the folds of her jacket showing a glowing lantern between her breasts, a sliver of white from underneath dark nude. She pulls the champagne bottle out from the ice bucket near him, filling the martini glass before sitting down. It's at once a thoughtful and thoughtless act, and she raises the bottle to offer him a repour as well.

"I think I'm doing fine," he deadpans.

"I'm sure you are."

He always did imagine she had moxy.

"You're a fan, I see," he remarks, gesturing to her breasts.

"My eyes are up here, Mr. Stark," she says, coquettish.

"Simply admiring your choice of attire, miss..." He stops, wonders why he's making small talk with a woman whose lampooning his technology at his own goddamn party. "What should I call you, anyway?"

She snorts, lifting a pinkie as she drinks from her glass. It's a performance, and she growls every bit like an old Hollywood starlet. "Don't."

"Well, Miss Don't, it looks better on you than it would on me." he smiles. "I've always admired your style."

She looks at him enigmatically, and the conversation drops for a second. When she picks it up again, it's as she pulls the champagne bottle out again, carelessly refilling her glass one more time. "It's hard to believe you'd throw a party like this one and be here."

It's cold bait, but Tony's buzz has him feeling playful enough to follow suit, "I've found my own parties get a bit boring, lately. I always find myself on a couch with some LA type who fawns all over me and then leaves. What brings you to this couch, Miss Don't?"

"All the people on your floor are gyrating too much. They all are LA types, though: you are right about that. I'm a New York girl, though, LA's never been my thing."

"That's unfortunate," he plays along, watching as she plays with the rim of her martini glass. "You'd love Malibu."

"LA would eat me up, Mr. Stark. The city would put its hands all over me, it'd take everything I had until I didn't have anything left. I know exactly what kind of girl it would take me for," she smiles, fingers siding down her blouse. It's a simple move he's seen a thousand times, but she sells it like she's about to peel back her skin, and with the lantern it looks like she's about to admit that deep down she's just like him. A chill goes down his spine at the revelation, he compensates with another swig of scotch.

"Sometimes it's like that, but a lot of the time it's not. You really never know how much you'll enjoy that treatment until you try," he shrugs. "Perhaps I could better describe it, take you on a tour? Even if LA doesn't eat you up, I have a feeling you'd enjoy my crack at it."

She stares, laughing as she drinks more of her champagne. "And here I thought we'd be speaking two different languages, Mr. Stark."

"Miss Don't, I assure you I'm very fluent."

It's a cheesy line in a hokey conversation, but it all kind of spirals out of control from there. She rises elegantly from the couch with the closed-mouthed smile of an ingenue. The walk to his bedroom is quiet, her stilettos tapping rhythmically against his marble floor. When they arrive at his bedside, she pushes him backward gently. Ladylike, she stands above him and places a foot between his legs, moaning as he slides his fingers up her naked thigh. He kisses and licks and pours and drinks everywhere and she smiles, sighing a formal 'Mr. Stark' when he does things right. His mouth leaves marks on her stomach and the undersides of her thighs, and when he does finish eating her, she sighs contently.

"Well if LA can suck like that, maybe I should rethink my loyalties."

"Trust me," he grins. "LA thinks loyalty is overhyped. I'd love nothing more than to fuck you hard to prove it."

She laughs, a beckoning sound. They strip each other down. She moves to take off the lantern but his fingers fly up and still hers, a silent plea to keep it on, just for a little while. Under him she looks gorgeous: naked flesh and warmth, wet when he finally prepares himself and pushes in. She moans, courts his tongue into her mouth and when she pushes up against him, the lamp adds its own dramatic aire to the planes of her face, clashing against the light of his own.

Her fingers trace his nipples and the outline of the reactor before they sink into his shoulder in a plea for more. He thrusts, ruts, twists and turns. Her lips part in whimpers and moans, gorgeous sounds that taste like champagne.

When she comes she squirms in his lap, her face focused on sensation. She snarls as he grits his teeth, fucking her through it even as her walls close in. Her back straightens, her thighs shaking with pleasure and the stilletto she's still wearing curls into his back. She clenches around him tight and everything collapses into itself as he comes. His fingers brush against her clit as he pulls himself out. She gasps again, squirms like he's just made her come again. They really are alike, he thinks, jealous.

They fall asleep and she's conscious of where she is, not quite glommed onto him like the rest of his legion of party girls. Her hand toys with the idle dip of his throat, tracing gently over his adam's apple, humming a lulling melody like she's singing him to sleep.

In the morning, when he walks out to find Pepper singing showtunes with Lady Gaga as they sit at his un-tuned baby grand, he feels a remarkable sense of satisfaction centered upon just how ridiculous his life really is.


End file.
